Not With Haste
by YellowBella
Summary: Dusty and Bliss. Broken sunglasses and bloody knuckles. Pink lemonade and snuck love. Autumn air and opening her wide. "So keep my love, my candle bright." Love is laying out anyone that says her name. So good you feel it in your elbows.


**Mumford and Sons – Not With Haste: **_We will run and scream. You will dance with me, fulfill our dreams, and we'll be free__We will be who we are. And they'll heal our scars. Sadness will be far away__Do not let my fickle flesh go to waste, as it keeps my heart and soul in it's place. And I will love with urgency, but not with haste_

**Early October - between "Marry me" and baby turning seventeen:**

"This ain't no sham. I am what I am." - Mumford and Sons, _Never with Haste_

**A Dusty Outtake**

_You're so fresh to death_, she whispers in my left ear. _Sick as cancer._

I spread her again, just to shut her up.

She rushes like a deep breath, like gasping for breath, like when you first come up from under the water. That's what she sounds like when we're together, while I'm taking her.

I step back from the bathroom counter, with the heels of my hands pressed to my brows—eyes closed. Lips parted. Lungs working double-time.

Head spinning.

Blood flooding.

Heart giving me the silent treatment with both middle fingers while all four chambers rock a pulse I don't deserve through veins that barely contain the bass and pressure.

I don't realize the faucet's still running until I open my eyes. My cut and bleeding hands reach to turn it off before my brain registers the command to do so. That's what she does to me. She puts my movements two steps ahead of my consciousness.

She twists my body's chain of command, and it should probably be dizzying.

But it's not.

It's fucking serene.

I sniff.

Instead of turning off the tap, I dip my hands under it. The cool water runs pink from my skin to the porcelain. I smirk, exhaling through my nose, shaking my head.

_Skinny gutter-punk motherfucker._

_Pusher._

_Filthy fucking snake._

_I shouldn't have stopped._

Moving my left hand over my right, I wash the cuts on my first two knuckles with my thumb and cold water. They're only bleeding because I caught his sunglasses. I could have done better. I could have knocked his fucking teeth out.

I should have.

But I flew off the handle.

I lost my shit when I heard him say her name. I didn't think. I didn't aim as well as I should have. I should have knocked him into a fucking concussion and made his already dead-brain bleed all over the inside of his skull.

I would have if Pete hadn't grabbed my shoulder. I almost laid him out, too. I was past mad. I was gone. I was red.

There were people everywhere in the little park. We were outside, but it was too packed. The spot security had roped off for the crowd around the stage wasn't very big and the show was sold out. Smoke hung in the autumn air, and blurred-together conversation filled the breeze between sets. The sun was just starting to dip. I stepped away with Ben to get Alice and Bliss drinks.

I turned my back for two seconds.

Two fucking seconds.

He must have thought I wasn't within earshot. He must have thought I wasn't paying attention. He must have thought I'm someone else fucking entirely, because he has to know—how can anyone not know—unless you're me, Pete or Ben, you keep _their_ names out of your fucking mouth.

We were walking back with four bottles of water; one in each of Ben's hands, one in my right, and a pink lemonade in my left. Our group was easy to spot between faces. Al's hair stands out like crazy, and my chicken shit slinger is taller than just about anybody.

Except me.

We're the same height. You could spot either of us in a crowd.

I shake my head, spitting in the sink before I shut the water off.

_Pete told him. Petey told him two fucking years ago that little sisters were untouchable..._

Vic and Mix were nowhere in sight as we walked back. They were probably in the bathroom. Petey was a few feet to our right, laughing with B and my sister. Dim was facing the sunset, his right side facing us, while he passed a joint to this kid Eric, who I only kind of, sort of knew through him.

_Whatever._

"Both of them." Dim laughed. He fucking laughed, blowing smoke up to the sky, showing his teeth under his sleazy fucking grin. He dusted stray ash from the front of his tee-shirt. "I'm used to having two girls fight over my dick. When I'm done with her best friend, little Bliss can clean me up. She likes that sweet shit."

He laughed again, low down, left hand over his stomach while his right reached to take the joint back.

He never got it.

I dropped the water and baby's lemonade, crossing what might have been ten steps in just five, and shot my fist into his face as hard as I could.

I broke his sunglasses.

He stumbled, stunned and disoriented as tinted-lens-cut, but he didn't go down.

So, I hit him again.

And he fell backwards into the dirt, right where he fucking belongs.

Instinct raged. Momentum and adrenaline coursed. I was stepping forward to drop to my knees and grab his skull by his slick fucking curls so I could paint the ground with sick spit and toxic red, but Pete grabbed me.

"Dusty! Fuck—"

When I felt his grip on my shoulder, nature reacted. I almost turned around and hit him too, but he hand both hands on my arms. And was shaking his head. And pushing me back. And even though he was stopping a totally inborn course of action, he's my boy. And he was right.

I might have killed Dimitri if he hadn't stopped me.

I could have.

For putting her name on his dirty fucking lips. For feeling like he has any right to even think of her. In any way.

My pulse rolls violently through my limbs now, steady-quick and incomparably warm. Coke does that. My girl, two doors down, but way too far away, does that.

In the moment, it all happened so fast. I pushed my best friend's hands off my shoulders and looked over his. Dim was spitting blood and wiping his cheek on the back of his hand and then wiping his hand on his jeans. Ben was telling him to fuck off and that he should have fucking known, and Alice was right behind him.

Bliss was standing back, looking at me.

Her sea-greens were wide and her perfect lips were parted. Her hands fidgeted at the sides of her skirt, and she was breathing shallow. I swear I could see her clean little lungs expanding and contracting twice a second under her unbuttoned cardigan.

I knew that look, just like I know every other one of them. It's everything, just like all of them.

It's love.

And want.

And sex.

And_ don't open your mouth._

_Don't get us caught._

_Fight for me, but don't fucking fall._

And more love.

More want.

More sex.

The way she looks at me when I drop motherfuckers for her is quenchless. Insatiable. Eager. It always fucking has been. Before I ever really touched her, before we were this, before she even knew what she wanted—what we could be and do. When she was fourteen and I was sixteen, and I was kicking the shit out of Brady Fuller ... even then, she craved vengeful, protective, possessive passion.

I could see it in her swelled-pretty pupils. I could feel it in her pulse when I pulled her into my lap in Ben's back seat. I could hear it in her voice when she said, _"way to start the summer Edward."_ Her tone shook, just a little, barely concealing what she felt and didn't even understand yet:

Turned-on longing.

Belly-deep attraction.

Needy desire.

She still may not completely understand it, but she knows now. She knows what to do with it. She knows it's mine.

Hitting the bathroom light switch with my left hand, I push down on the front of my jeans with my right, half-hard with just the memory that's spinning with compulsion, requirement and echoes of epinephrine still flowing through my system. I step into my room and drag my left hand down my face.

The show before everything happened was good. We'd been there since noon watching and listening, smoking and smiling. Bliss and Alice aren't as close as the used to be. They didn't dance together as much as sunny side did on her own, but it didn't bother my girl much. Easy joy still curled the corners of her lips and carefree contentment lilted her lashes while she lifted her arms and swayed her hips to _"never knowing, shocking but we're nothing. We're just moments..."_

She winked at me over _"I'm a-lookin for something to sink my teeth into without any crying."_

And hooked her pinkie around mine when guitar and mandolin floated through the breeze. It was the smallest touch, snuck between our sides and stolen from all eyes as Marcus started to sing, "_your eyes they tie me down so hard. I'll never learn to put up a guard."_

My heart beats in my chest, so deep, but muffled by so much. I don't want to wait for my sister to pass out. I want love now. Here. Right now. I need her.

Too impatient to stand the sight of my room too long, I grab my pack and head out onto the roof. I breathe smoke and take turns cursing the stars, before I thank them, one by one.

They crossed us, but thank fucking God they crossed us. Wrong as it might be, I'd rather be wrapped up with Bliss in impossibility and pure hurt than separated, or wrapped with anyone else, or having never held her at all.

I lean on my elbows and stare at pitch dark Heaven. I blow smoke. I yearn. I consider.

I remember.

We didn't stay much longer after I went off. Dimitri and Eric left on their own, but security wasn't far behind telling me I had to leave, too. Everyone else just kind of followed. We haven't been home long, maybe half an hour. I know I've got a few more at least before B can come down to me. I know.

But I don't want to wait.

Coke helps. She keeps me distracted. She keeps my spine straight and my head clear, but there's leftover violence in my nerves, shaking to get out. I've got aggression to fucking spare, and the frustration from not being able to finish what I started, what Dimitri more than deserved and what I fucking needed to bestow, won't let up. Using aided, but the urge is there, picking at my thin excuse for patience and vibrating to cut loose.

I need to fight, or I need to fuck.

It's so stupid fucking simple I could laugh, if the need for both wasn't so needling, stinging, burning hot under my skin.

I flick my cigarette.

I climb back down into my room and run the bathroom tap again.

Coke laughs.

_If you're going crazy, just grab me and take me_, she offers, singing, licking her lips, hiking her skirt, tickling my sinuses, promising, promising, promising. _I'd follow you down, down, down._

_Anywhere._

_Anywhere._

I spread her out and give her something to fucking sing about.

I split her in two, wide and generous.

I take her unflinchingly, harsh and greedy.

Absolutely.

Completely.

I sniff drops of water off my pinkie to prolong and increase what she gives me, and I rub what's left of her onto the middle of my tongue and into my gums.

I take all, and when there's nothing left of what I cut, I drop my head back and breathe deep, deep, deeply in through my nose.

My blood ripples and rocks in waves that feel too big for my veins. Skeletal muscles contract and twitch. My hands close into fists, open again and stretch all the way out. My heart thunders with effort to take and handle everything I just forced on it, and my mouth curves into a selfish, spitefully pleased, crooked as a hook and endlessly, shamelessly smug smirk.

Coke pants and gasps like the whore she is: wordless, nothing but trying to breathe. I've fucked her speechless, and she shuts everything else up, too.

My mind.

My conscience.

My heart.

I'm left with nothing but the sound of running water, the overriding sense of raw, irresistible, ironclad capability, and twisting, pulsing, demanding necessity.

I save it for her—for my girl. She's the only one that can even begin to handle it.

Shutting the water off, left now with just undiluted ability and need, I blink slowly at my reflection. I push my hands through my hair, only messing it up further, smooth out my plain white tee, and look hard into my black.

Ink.

Soot.

Vice.

Virulence.

Audacity.

Arrogance—so much fucking arrogance.

_You're screwed up_, coke barely breathes. _And brilliant._

I close my eyes and sniff. I think about fucking her again, about another cigarette, about pulling the fucking sink from the wall—anything to ease my scratching, restless and unrelenting nerves just for another few seconds, but then I feel her.

I know she's in my room before I hear my door close and lock, and everything inside me—tendons and troubles, bones and breath and burrowing, boisterous fucking needfulness—stills.

And straightens.

And moves me, smooth as shot of scotch, right to where I belong.

She's walking toward the bathroom door just as I open it. Her steps stop when she sees me, and Bella takes one back, looking up. I lean against the frame.

She's bare foot now, but she's still in her white tube top and cardigan and petal-orange-pink skirt from earlier. The color makes me think of my graduation and those flowers and her fucking denial and selfish refusal, and I want to tell her to get the fuck out.

I want to yell at her and tear my chest open so she can see what she's doing.

I want to break her like bread and devour her entirely.

Her eyes dart to my right hand, then back to mine. She shifts her weight on her feet. Her toes curl against the carpet. I don't have to see them to know it. I know they do.

I lean away from the frame and step toward her. She probably doesn't have long before Alice is out of the shower, or wherever she is, but I don't care. She came in here. She brought herself to me. Her presence is an offering, and she knows it.

She wants it.

Her light pink shimmering lids lift higher as I come closer. She tilts her head back to keep looking up, to hold my eyes. She licks her lips and parts them, and when I touch her, when I press my hands into her sides and slide them up, under her arms, she welcomes me.

"Alice left," she whispers, lips finding the side of my neck as I pick her up, pulling tea-tree and autumn air and clean, sixteen year old sweetness into my lungs. "She's not coming back tonight."

I don't need the details.

Holding her tightly, pressing her so closely to myself, I carry her to my unmade bed and drop her there.

Baby stretches out on top of messed up gray blankets and sheets, extending her arms up and her hands into my pillows. She tilts her head back and breathes in, and she sighs, closing her eyes. This girl places the soles of her feet on the edge of my bed, with her vinyl black painted toes curled adorably tight, and opens her bent knees just a little. Giving me a peek. Teasing. Killing.

Knowing.

I take hold of her peony-orange-pink skirt and pull it hard, jerking her out of her sensual revelry. Her eyes open and she faces up, kicking at me as I tug it off her, hasty, hoping it stretches and ruins. She presses her lips together, and when she kicks again, her foot hits the front of my shoulder. I don't feel it, but that's not even close to the point.

"Princess brat." I grab her ankle and pull her to the edge of my bed. "Are you going to fight me?"

"Don't tear my clothes," she snips back, but it's empty. It's nothing. She doesn't mean it even a little bit.

With her legs open at my hips and her bottom at the edge of my mattress, I grab her forearm and pull her to sit up; her face level with my sternum as I grip her sweater and rip it intentionally. She bends her knees in, trying to shut me out. She struggles with her legs and pushes with her hands. Her kicks slide off. Her fists are powder soft.

"Kid baby," I taunt, wanting her fight, craving it every bit as much as she loved mine today. "Little girl. Baby baby baby Bliss."

She tries to shove my hands away as I pull at her shirts, stretching and tearing both of them in the process. I take her strapless bra away, too, and place my hand between her breasts, pushing her back down onto my bed. I grip her hips and force her closer, making her thighs spread to fit my hips, and I press myself against her center through my jeans and light, light, light pink cotton.

Bella's lips fall open and her neck arches. So does her back, and she curls her fingers into my sheets. She doesn't fight me now; she holds me. She bends her knees higher and squeezes me between her legs, trying to get me closer.

No longer needing to keep her in place and in love with how good she looks holding onto me with her legs, circling her hips, rubbing herself against me for pressure, I let go of to pull my shirt off. I watch her arch and rock against my cock through my jeans, trying to follow my hips with hers while I step out of my shoes and undo my belt.

The sound of metal and leather unfastening makes her blink and open her eyes, and lean up.

Baby smiles, lusty-lidded and desperately dreamy. She scoots even closer and reaches for my buckle with both hands.

"Fuck off," I tell her, placing my hand in the center of her chest once more and pushing her onto her back again.

I love her. I want her. And I'm going to fuck her until she begs me to stop, but she doesn't run this.

I do.

When she reaches again, I grab both her wrists and press them down into my blankets, next to each of her shoulders, and I come down on top of her. My hips push her legs up and wider open, and she gasps deep and loud as I push against her. Her face is just a few inches under mine and her flirting, daring, need-darkened eyes are open as her mouth. She watches me watching her, and I press harder, digging hard against where she's so soft, and she takes the sweetest, most shallow little breaths.

My belt buckle presses into the bottom left side of her belly, wrinkling her eyebrows with pinches of pain, and every time I push against her, even though my half-undone jeans and her unders, I can feel her, burning up. She arches her back and tries to lift her hips and free her wrists, but I hold her down. I rock against her like I was inside until her eyes roll back and her lids close and she starts to shake, and she's panting my name—praying it—pleading with every thrust. "Please, please, please..."

I lean all of my weight onto her. Her head's tilted way back, and I bend my own down, dragging my lips and teeth over her throat.

"I wanted to kill for you today," I tell her, no thought, no filter, no hesitation, just truth. All truth. Just pouring.

Baby shakes harder and arches higher. Her legs tremble around me and her heels dig into my thighs.

"I would," I whisper, licking my lips and her skin, soft, soft, soft right under my teeth, right under her ear. "You know I'd fucking kill for you."

Bliss moans, long and low and loud. I should cover her mouth, but I can't bear to.

She knows. She knows I would.

Maybe it scares her. Maybe she loves it. Maybe both. Either way, she knows.

And hearing me say so is making her heart rush and her blood sing and her whole fucking body twist and tighten and tremble.

Gripping her wrists tighter, pinning and pressing them down into my bed, I bite just under and behind her earlobe and push my cock so hard against her she cries out loud.

I let go of her left wrist and cover her mouth tight, and I don't stop pushing. She whimpers behind my hand, and arches into me, quivering like crazy while I push, push, push so hard my feet slip against the carpet. My socks slide and my balance falters, but I don't fall. And I don't ease.

I drag my kiss further behind her ear just an inch, biting again, and sucking, and biting again, kissing hard while she comes apart. Baby pulls at my hair, digging her little fingers into the back of my neck and pulling tighter, clinging and rocking and riding while she comes. I grip her wrist tighter, pushing her hand up, up, up, above her head and under my pillows, stretching her arm out. She pulls harder on my hair and scratches the nape of my neck, cutting in and clinging.

Maybe she makes me bleed. Maybe she pulls hair completely out.

I wouldn't know it if she did.

No pain registers.

It's not enough.

When her small screams and high whimpers turn into deep breaths through her nose, I slide my hand away. She pants, gasping for air, stretching, curling, still shaking.

I don't give her time to slow or breathe through coming down.

Her love-drunk eyes open doe-wide as I let go and lean up, taking pastel pink cotton with me.

"Please," she breathes, her chest heaving as she reaches for my belt again, pleading for what she needs so badly.

Overwhelming power and overbearing possessiveness pulse through me at the sight and sound and feel of her this way: given over, wide open and vulnerable in her want, quaking and begging and desperate for me to fill her.

I stand taller. I smirk. I pulse from hard to unyieldingly solid, and here, now, pain registers. Aching. Soreness. Impenitently hot discomfort makes my cock throb to be inside her.

I nudge her hands away again, and in one quick shift, I turn her over, onto her stomach.

Bella makes a small, blanket muffled and cry-rasped sound. She turns her head to face me and moves up onto her hands.

But I don't want her up.

I want her down.

And open.

And incoherent for me.

I shake my head as our eyes meet and press my right hand between her shoulders. Her muscles go slack. Her bent open knees slide apart for me. She rests her cheek against my pillows and blinks slowly, nestling, but opens her eyes again, not looking away.

She loves this.

She loves me behind her.

Her hands slide up, on both sides of her head and she arches her bottom higher. Our eyes fasten and hers radiate love and longing and total devotion back at mine. I smile. I can't help it.

Leaning over her, I kiss between her shoulders where my hand was. I kiss down her spine and watch it curve. I kiss between the two dimples in the small of her back, and I grip her hips, pulling her closer to where I stand. I slide my hands down, over her belly and closer together, between her legs, over the insides of her thighs, pulling them wider apart.

Baby's eyebrows furrow together and her lips pout. She tries to lift and push back into my touch. I laugh. I can't help that either. I love her. She was fucking made for me.

Sliding my hands up her thighs to the bottoms of her cheeks, I rub my thumbs along her softest, prettiest, most precious place. Her fingers curl into my sheets and her eyelids flutter closed. My cock pulses with my heartbeat. Baby's so fucking perfect it hurts. She has the prettiest fucking cunt.

I slide my thumbs closer together. Her lips are soft and full, and she moans so sweetly when I part them. She's darker pink when I open her, slick-soft and small and mine, only ever and always mine. I hold her carefully open with my left thumb and rub between her lips with my right fingertips. Bliss arches higher, breathes faster and threatens to tear my fucking sheets with her grip.

I smile. I lick my lips while I slide my fingers, up and down, slowly, rubbing two fingertips between soft pink folds, along both sides of where she opens, but not slipping inside. Not yet. I slide my touch down, letting my eyes and fingers find her little clit. I draw a slow, teasing circle around it and watch her thighs shiver and her eyelids clench. I draw another and another, rubbing how wet she is into her sweetest spot until she's reaching back for my hands and begging.

"Stop, stop, stop, please, please." She swallows hard, trying to scoot back and open more, rocking and circling her hips covetously. "Give to me, please, please, please, give to me."

Taking both her hands in mine, I lean down on top of her once more and press her palms back into place. "Stay still," I whisper lowly, brushing her hair over her shoulder so I can see her face. "Stay right here, baby."

Bliss nods against my pillows, breathing feverishly.

When I lean back up, the same all-consuming sense of power and possessiveness courses through me. Bending my knees and lifting her by her hips, high enough that her knees leave my bed for a moment, I kiss between her legs. Just once. Long and slow, and dirty, and deep. I part soft little lips with my tongue and love her warmth, and I make her half gasp, half giggle, completely coo my name so beautifully before I put her down.

Knees apart, I grip the perfect curve of her hip with my left hand and line myself up with my right. I slide the head of my cock along her once, twice. I spread her with it, but I don't tease her or myself. I don't fuck around. When I'm exactly where I belong, I grip baby's right hip and push all the way forward.

Bella's spine curves and her mouth opens wide. She cuts a breath like she only does for this moment. It makes my fucking knees shake and the hair on the back of my neck stand. It takes my air and gives me chills, and makes my vision glow around the edges, and all I want in the whole world is to never, ever, ever leave.

I dig my fingers into her hips and push further forward, groaning as she pants tiny, sweet little whisper-sounds and tries to part her knees even wider.

She can't though. She's spread absolutely for me, as open as her body can be, and all she's doing by inching her knees apart is pulling herself away from my cock.

I don't let her. Not even slightly.

"Shhh," I whisper, pulling her back up, slowly rocking my hips as I do so, watching her body take mine all the way. She shiver-shakes. She grips and pulls my sheets. "Shhh," I whisper again, pulling my cock back just to push in deeper. "Let me in, baby. Let me love you."

It's all she needs to hear.

The tension in her backbone eases and she arches it gracefully higher. Her brow relaxes and the corners of her lips curve a little, shaping the most grateful open-mouth smile. She sighs, and I know she's on her belly, but I swear I _feel_ her swoon.

It's like melting, like her muscles melt and she holds me inside with smooth, pure, so wet, so-snug warmth.

It's ours only, hers to offer only me.

It's what she came here to give me.

Love.

Perfect, imperfect, deliciously soft, never-enough, Heaven-sent to a sinner, love.

I start slow, but not easy. Never easy. Not even when she needs it that way, because we always need it heavier, deeper, harder. More.

I pull all the way back and fill her with slow strokes, watching her take every inch, watch her vertebrae uncurve and recurve with every return, welcoming me back inside with the sexiest, most feminine shape her body can make. And every time I'm pressed completely inside, I push and hold her to me by her hips, and grind heavily, and I make her feel me right there, all the way, utterly within, buried as deep as God and our bodies allow.

She soaks me.

She trembles around me.

She sings our love in breathless, secret little whispers, and the deeper I go, the longer I'm inside, the harder it is to go slowly.

I press her forward on my bed so I can get on my knees behind her. Sliding my hands up to her sides, I grip them both, pushing my weight down into her and hers down into my bed. The shift moves her face into the pillows and she shoves them away, pulling strawberry blonde out of her barely open eyes. She keeps her face and shoulders down, but her hips lifted as high as she can and knees wide, scooting and pushing back to meet my rocking. I pick up our pace and the increase makes it impossible for her to be as quiet as we need.

Her loss of control sows my own.

I clamp my hand over her mouth before her scream comes up too loudly, and I rock my hips to the relentless rhythm that's splitting my chest.

I fuck fully and compulsively.

I fuck steadfastly and painstakingly.

I fuck ardently and arduously.

I fuck with diehard devotion and soulful surrender. I fuck with every miserable ounce of frustration and aggression that I've shouldered to this moment. I fuck as hard as I wanted to fight. I fuck with heart-fastened abandon until everything in me that's tensed excruciatingly tight, turns blindingly bright white, and flows down my spinal column like liquid light.

I don't stop moving as I come, and come, and come, but I do cover her completely. I wrap both arms around her, one under her breasts and the other lower, around the bottom of her stomach, rolling through my release with her.

She slips tears, precious and beautiful and warm.

I shake, enamored and lost and flickering, fighting hard to hold onto my soul in the strength of the storm.

Baby turns, carefully and slowly. She winces and seeks, and finds me again, and brings me back inside. She rubs her thumbs over fight-cut knuckles and curves her fingers with mine. She kisses me, crossing the stars I'm seeing, and wraps me in soft, so sublime safekeeping. She holds me gently, defenselessly, unswervingly tight. She keeps my love, my candle bright.

She's softness, but she loves me hard, because she's learned me right.

Try and try as I might, Bliss doesn't let my fickle flesh go to waste, because it keeps my heart and soul in place. Love is knowing, and loving anyway, despite of, inside of, above, below, all throughout and all around. Love is promising with our bodies what we can't with our words.

And baby loves me just as we were made to.

With assurance.

With devotion.

With urgency.

But never with haste.


End file.
